


Hard To Reach

by terrormusical



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terrormusical/pseuds/terrormusical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete is starting to wonder if a dream can somehow be so good that it's a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard To Reach

**Author's Note:**

> I had my first nightmare in a really long time the other day and I was kind of wishing there was someone there to make me feel better so I wrote this :D it did, indeed, make me feel better. Enjoy!

Pete has this wonderful dream where he's back in high school, out from under the microscope. Back when the only people who knew his name were his three friends and his parents. Before he ever picked up a bass and before he had anything to worry about. He's back in time where nothing mattered, and way before he began to worry about what people thought of him.

In his dream, he's free.

He has the dream often, usually waking up suddenly, violently, to a cold room (he forgot to turn the air conditioner off), the television uselessly buzzing, casting blue light onto the walls (he forgot to put the sleep timer on), and something much more annoying and sickening buzzing in his veins: something like energy, but worse. Energy—you can burn that off.

He's gone for midnight jogs, he's rolled out of bed at two in the morning to drink cup after cup of coffee, all to absolutely no effect. He can never, ever burn it off.

At some point, all recurring dreams stop or change. Nothing is static, he reminds himself every night before he closes his eyes, wondering if he'll wake up buzzing again. The dream, it's like a drug. It's good, but when it's gone, you're miserable. Good while it's happening; not so great after.

The night the dream finally changed, Pete was with Gabe.

“Dude, you don't have to sleep on the couch,” Pete said, once more for good luck, thinking that maybe Gabe would actually give in this time. He raised his eyebrows, turned his palms upward: the deal made, waiting for the answer. “You can wake up with scoliosis tomorrow, or,” Pete says, grinning, “Calfiornia king. Memory foam.”

Gabe was still hanging on to that tiny, nagging sliver of rationality. Pete hated it, he hated that he could see it so plainly. Who said straight guys don't sleep in the same bed as their straight friends? Who made that rule, and where is it written down? Obviously, that person has never waken up, sad and alone, maybe even a little afraid in a cold, empty bed. He would never admit that to Gabe, though; he would never admit that walking down the hallway alone every night alone made him feel a little more lost.

“Fine, if it makes you happy,” Gabe says, and Pete squares his shoulders. Deal accepted.

He falls asleep quickly that night, almost in the moment his head hits the pillow. Gabe is still propped up on his elbows, watching something totally meaningless on TV—but he's there. That's enough.

In his dream, Pete is walking down the street, hands in his pockets—his old neighborhood. People drive past him, ignoring him, and he smiles. It's nice, being so safe and so free all at once. It's perfect. He misses it.

The dream changes suddenly, and Pete is falling through the thickest, blackest darkness he's ever seen (or not seen), and when his eyes open again, he's blinded. The flashes of cameras. His eyes adjust—a red carpet beneath his feet, a warm weight on his arm. He turns his head, feeling dizzy and heavy at the first sight of the girl. Her eyes are wide and shining, and she's dazzled by the cameras—not him. “Pete!” They all scream, throwing questions at him until they all start to sound the same, like the rapid fire of a machine gun, and no. No, this is not what Pete wants, this is not his escape, this is reality taking over his paradise, this is your boss coming with you on vacation, all wrong. He feels like he's drowning: that desperate feeling of knowing the surface of the water is so close, and your lungs are burning so badly that you're not sure if you'll make it.

He inhales suddenly, a huge, refreshing gulp of oxygen, and he's looking at his ceiling.

A voice.

“Dude, are you—oh my god, what the fuck—look at me, Pete—”

It's like slowly adjusting the lens on a camera, watching everything come into focus. It's Gabe.

“Are you okay? Jesus Christ, you scared me—I, I thought—I don't know what I thought,” he rushes, and Pete is doing his best to sit up. He feels strong, warm arms wrap around him, also Gabe's, and a soothing command that matches the movement of lips against his neck. “It's okay, lay down. You're fine.” Then, piercing through the still-present fog of sleep, crystal clear: “I'm here.”

Pete opens his eyes, the room quiet, still, Gabe looking at him expectantly. The air is cold, but Gabe is warm next to him, and the miles and miles of meaning behind the simple statement push him closer as he says, “I know,” and presses his lips to Gabe's.

**Author's Note:**

> ......yeah i'm totally going to end up writing a sequel.


End file.
